


Hereafter

by nerfherderhan



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fix-it fic, I have zero clue what to tag so if anything jumps out hmu, M/M, New Game Plus, Roleswap, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-03 18:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerfherderhan/pseuds/nerfherderhan
Summary: He reached up to rub his eyes again—and then stopped. The blazer wasn't just plain, he found, and with growing caution he poked at the bold red buttons lining its front. He didn't own a blazer like this, he thought. But he knew he'd seen it somewhere before.Something was off, and it wasn't just the blazer."Oh-em-gee," came a voice from behind him. He moved aside out of habit, hugging the wall as a group of high school girls meandered past him. Their phones were in their hands, and immediately his mind went to the obvious. They wanted a picture of him, right? A selfie with him? "Did you see thatlookhe made during his interview?""I saved it as my wallpaper," another of the group—an obvious athlete—chirped. She turned her phone screen around to show her friends, and he just barely missed what they were gushing over as they walked past. The athletic girl let out a dreamy sigh as she pocketed her phone, and the tallest of the group barely got a word in before they were out of an earshot.But it was definitely something that dispelled any fatigue in him, his mind more alert than ever: "Kurusu-kun can arrest meanyday."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Filled with regret but still starting a new work? Sure.
> 
> I'm taking a lot of liberties with the more unknown stuff in the P5 universe, but hopefully it doesn't show too much in just this opening chapter. Also working that neat li'l fast forwarding date and day into a fic? Hellish.

_"Let's make a deal... Okay? You won't say no... will you?"_

_"Why at a time like this!?"_

_"Change Shido's heart... in my stead... End his crimes..."_

_"Isn't there some way to get this open, Mona?"_

_"Please...!"_

_"Akechi-kun!"_

_"Leave it to me."_

* * *

 

**December 12**

**Devember 112**

**Novembil 38**

**Novpril 08**

**Noa**  
              p  
                       ri  
                                      l     0  
                                                          9

 

* * *

 

**April 09**

"Did you see the new interview he was in?"

"Are you kidding? As _if_ I'd miss watching him on TV! I had to fight my dad for the remote last night!"

"Can you believe he's only the same age as us?"

"He's cute, in a sleepy cat sort of way. I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks..."

"I got the same kind of glasses as him special ordered. Now we can match!"

"E—Excuse me, sir? The next stop is coming up..."

The soft touch against his shoulder was enough to startle him awake, a miracle compared to the way the train's movements jostled him around. The hand that had reached for him retreated back to its owner. He followed its movements, finding a young girl standing over him.

He'd seen her uniform somewhere before, he thought, but he wasn't given much time to ponder where. The mousey girl cleared her throat and turned her gaze down to her feet.

"Shibuya's coming up," she mumbled. "I—I just assumed you would be... Um..."

Everything was so bright, he thought. Was the subways lit up like this inside the carts? How had he not noticed before? Why was it bothering him now?

He cleared his throat and nodded, thanking the girl under his breath. He brought a hand up to his face and rubbed at his eyes. How long had he been asleep? What time even was it? Every part of him felt so sluggish and stiff, like he'd been risen from the dead. His fingers were rigid. His face felt sunken. His legs were practically asleep. Was there any part of him that felt functional right now?

The rub to his eyes helped a little bit. The light was just a little bit more tolerable, and his awareness was slowly but surely building itself back up. Once his mind was back in fine form, his body would follow.

And kick into gear, it did. No sooner had he pulled his hand away did he notice something rather odd—a bag very much different from his usual one settled atop his lap, zipped up and innocently waiting to be used once he reached his stop. He poked and prodded at it, regarded it like some kind of mysterious gift left on his doorstep, until finally curiosity got the better of him. He unzipped the bag and plunged his hand in.

The first thing he pulled out was a textbook—titled neatly with the subject of mathematics on the first page, undeniably his own handwriting. The relieved breath he let out was both confusing and liberating. He had no clue why he'd been so worried, nor why he'd be so relieved to see his own math book in his bag.

He stuffed the book back into the bag and zipped it up again. His hand lingered on the material of it, and his attention slowly turned for his arm. It wasn't often he wore black, but he must've forgotten what he'd dressed himself in this morning. There were plenty of blazers back at home—he just never found the right time to wear them.

" _Shibuya_ ," the conductor's voice rattled through the speakers. " _Now stopping at Shibuya._ "

Yes, he needed to get off at Shibuya. He had no idea why he was even outside of the are in the first place. He hardly ever had business outside of Shibuya.

No... There was _one_ place, wasn't there? The earthy aroma that surrounded him, drew him in for more... But where was it?

Before he parted ways with the mousey girl entirely, he nodded his head to her and smiled. "Thank you for waking me," he said. "I'd hate to get lost just because I overslept."

She stammered her goodbye and left him to his own devices. For a moment he dawdled in the underground walkway, uncertain of what was next. Normally he went home, right? But the strangest feeling was overcoming him—or rather, the lack of a certain feeling was becoming more and more clear to him. Where was the natural draw to come home? The immediate glance down the street that would take him on a straight path to his residence?

He reached up to rub his eyes again—and then stopped. The blazer wasn't just plain, he found, and with growing caution he poked at the bold red buttons lining its front. He didn't own a blazer like this, he thought. But he knew he'd seen it somewhere before.

Something was off, and it wasn't just the blazer.

"Oh-em-gee," came a voice from behind him. He moved aside out of habit, hugging the wall as a group of high school girls meandered past him. Their phones were in their hands, and immediately his mind went to the obvious. They wanted a picture of him, right? A selfie with him? "Did you see that _look_ he made during his interview?"

"I saved it as my wallpaper," another of the group—an obvious athlete—chirped. She turned her phone screen around to show her friends, and he just barely missed what they were gushing over as they walked past. The athletic girl let out a dreamy sigh as she pocketed her phone, and the tallest of the group barely got a word in before they were out of an earshot.

But it was definitely something that dispelled any fatigue in him, his mind more alert than ever: "Kurusu-kun can arrest me _any_ day."

It was like a shock went through him. He dropped his bag, eyes blown wide and throat closing up. For a moment he was stock still, unable to process anything, and then it hit him all at once.

Kurusu—

Akira Kurusu—

Phantom Thief Joker—

Robin Hood—

Loki—

_Shido—_

_The pain in his side and the gun heavy in his hand—_

_His shadow calling him a bastard, mirroring his form—_

_Pleads to open the door and let them help, let him see his plan to the end—_

The promise he'd made—that Akira had made—before there was finally silence.

He staggered. His feet skidded along the floor. His bag was forgotten as instinct took over, the familiar upset of his stomach forcing him in search of the nearest bathroom. Someone was calling out to him, trying to stop him from leaving his bag, but he didn't falter. His feet pounded against the floor and he almost knocked over a few other people in his path, and finally he crashed into the door of the nearest men's bathroom.

All the stalls were miraculously free. He didn't have time to be picky over which one he wanted, though; as soon as he stepped foot into the first one, seat lifted for his convenience, everything he'd apparently eaten came rushing back up. The acid burned his throat and the rotten taste clogged his nose. It was too much. The Palace, the Phantom Thieves, the Velvet Room. Too much, his overworked mind whimpered.

Two other people had entered, only to leave once they heard him heave into the toilet, before he was done. The flashes had slowed to dull, calm replays of the past. His hands though shaking and sweaty, flushed the toilet and all of his breakfast out of sight. He wiped at his brow with his sleeve and tried to steady his breathing.

Akira, he thought. He would leave Shibuya to see Akira. He would go to Leblanc and order a coffee, and he'd happen to run into Akira. And then he'd be inducted. And then...

He clamped a hand over his mouth, resolved in only experiencing that god-awful feeling in his throat _once_.

Was there something after Shido's Palace? Was there something after even death? Or was it... He struggled to ask himself if it was even real at all. If all the pain and struggle and lying and _murder_ had been real. If it had all been an elaborate dream.

But they said Kurusu, a small part of him protested. It had to have been real, or else the name would never have struck such a chord.

He shook his head. No, it all had to have been a dream. He must've heard the name somewhere and forgot the dream until someone else said it. Shujin uniforms were common on the train to Shibuya, too. That was it. His heartbeat slowed to a steady pace, his stomach no longer churning in a panic. Yes, that was it. Just a dream filled with buzzwords and familiar sights...

A familiar sight, he found as he opened the stall door, like the Shujin uniform he was wearing. Goro Akechi lunged for the sink, for the mirror behind it that he pawed at desperately. It was him—it was him in the Shujin uniform, in _Akira's_ uniform. Goro's attempts to keep his calm slowly undid themselves one-by-one. He breathed heavily at his reflection, and his hands shook violently against the glass.

This was wrong. He didn't go to Shujin—he went to— No, it didn't matter where he went. What mattered was that he _didn't_ _go to_ _Shujin_. More than that, he realised at the sight of the 2 on his blazer's collar, he wasn't a _second_ -year. Goro was more than certain he was a third-year, in his final time at school before he could graduate and move on to grander things.

The door to the bathroom opened, and in walked a staff member of the station with his bag. Goro backed away from the mirror and tried to compose himself, but who was he fooling? He was on the verge of a meltdown just from how _wrong_ all of this was.

"Please be more careful in the future, sir," the staff member said. He left without another word, and Goro was left to his own devices once more.

His first course of action was to lock himself in the same stall again. Goro put the lid of the seat down and made himself comfortable as he settled the bag on his lap; he unzipped it in one swift motion, and he wasted no time looking at the full contents of his bag.

An assortment of textbooks, new and old, all coming in pairs of each. The old textbooks were filled with notes and assignments he had to have gone through last year, while the new books were empty save for his name and the subject of the class. Goro wrinkled his nose at the possibility that he'd somehow— _somehow_ —been held back, but dismissed the thought for something more rational, given his intellect. He could've had the old books to refresh his memory. He could've had them to copy over the more important notes from last year.

A single change of clothes, his usual sweater vest and trousers. Goro let out a whimper at the familiarity, the one thing that was _right_ about all this. He ran a hand over the fabric of the vest almost longingly, but he didn't linger for more than a moment.

A phone— _his_ phone, and it was a matter of typing his password before the whole world was at his fingertips. Goro peeked through his recent apps, through all his browser searches, and his heart sank with each result. _Shibuya to Yongen-Jaya train route. Shibuya to Shujin Academy route. Yongen-Jaya map. Part-time work in Shibuya._

There was an address, and Goro connected the dots rather quickly once he remembered the area around Leblanc. His phone had searches for Sojiro Sakura's house, as well as multiple routes to take in order to get there without getting lost along the way. It was how he would habitually set up his phone whenever he had to navigate his way around somewhere unfamiliar. But Shibuya wasn't unfamiliar to Goro—it was _home_.

He sifted through his phone further, finding text messages and emails he didn't remember having before. One from a contact impossibly listed as "Mom", apologising over and over while simultaneously scolding him. An email from a law firm he was unfamiliar with, detailing a trial he'd apparently been part of. Another email, this time from his lawyer. When did he have a lawyer? For what reason?

Goro tapped and tapped and tapped, until finally he arrived at the root of the situation: For some ungodly reason he'd been charged with assault, and he'd _lost_. Goro's heart sank. He switched off his phone and hung his head between his shoulders. What the hell was going on? None of this made sense, especially since he was so certain everything was out of place. He didn't go to Shujin, he wasn't on probation, he wasn't destined to meet up with Sojiro Sakura—

But Akira was.

Something was happening, something messing with the order of things. Goro turned on the tap and rinsed his face. He slung his bag over his shoulder and let out a long, steeling breath. He had to get to the Velvet Room as soon as possible. Someone—or perhaps something—had meddled with the world when he'd died. And Goro was completely certain that he'd died. There was no mistaking the breath that slipped out of his lungs a final time, nor the halt of his heart.

He fixed the appearance of an otherwise unbothered Shujin student onto himself. Goro exited the bathroom, head held high, and made a beeline for the next train to Yongen-Jaya. He waited quietly in the Ginza line's row of pedestrians. He let nothing slip of the plan beginning to form in his head, ready to uncover what had happened between his death and now.


	2. Chapter 2

**April 09**

Compared to when Goro had first met him, Sojiro Sakura was much, _much_ more closed off towards his new charge. He casually remarked that he'd forgotten Goro's arrival date and sent him straight to the attic to unpack, and then returned his half-baked focus to the only two customers in the cafe. It was annoying, if not familiar enough to get on Goro's nerves, but he didn't protest.

Sojiro joined him a good ten minutes after sending him up, and their real introduction began. Goro sat himself down on the dusty couch next to his storage box, hesitant to open it just yet. Was this the state of the room when Akira had been sent here? All dusty and covered with cobwebs, closer to, well, a storage attic than a liveable space? If he weren't so confused he'd be just a tad offended. Now _he_ was the attic trash, and boy did it feel like a slap to the face when he made that connection.

"Alright," Sojiro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He stood by the table next to the stairs, almost like he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. "They told me you suffered some kind of memory loss from the event, so I'm only gonna say this once before you need to remind yourself."

Goro blinked. He'd been quiet this whole time, unwilling to say something out of line or even cross the man. But to just be told that he'd suffered from some amnesia of sorts? To say it made investigating his "life" easier was an understatement. He nodded once, hands folded in his lap as he waited for Sojiro to go on.

"You protected some woman from a man forcing himself on her, he got injured, then sued you." Sojiro crossed his arms. "You got out of a juvenile sentence and were instead given probation. The judge also agreed you be held back a year to finish your second year of high school with a much more responsible note—pretty arbitrary if you ask me."

The man didn't miss Goro's dry glare down at his uniform.

"I don't care for the details outside of that. All you need to keep in mind is that you're on thin ice right now. I lock up this store in the evening, so it'll be just you. Do anything stupid and I won't hesitate to kick you out."

With his most agreeable expression, Goro said, "Yes, sir."

"I'll leave cleaning the room up to you, since it's yours now." Sojiro began to make the exit he seemed to be begging for, but paused after only one step. "And go to bed early tonight. We're going to Shujin to introduce you to your teachers tomorrow."

Thus ended his brief introduction to his new life. To Akira's old life.

Goro cleaned as best he could while he listened to Sojiro close up shop. He packed away some of the trash bags, made space on the far shelf for his storage box, and pulled a sheet over the small bed in the corner of the room. Despite how small and cluttered with junk it was, this place felt so empty. Goro sat down on the edge of his bed and gave the room a once-over.

To think, someone with so much charisma and so many loved ones started out somewhere so lonely and barren. To think, Goro added with a snort, he'd feel like he was back at his apartment in Shibuya. He never did have to worry about being homesick in the first place—can't miss something you never had, right?—but if Goro were capable of it, this attic would certainly be enough to keep it at bay.

Sojiro called upstairs that he was leaving, at that Goro _had_ to be in bed soon for an early rise. Goro listened as the bell above the cafe door jingled. He listened for that impossibly silent click of the lock sliding in place, and then he peered out the window behind the bed for any sign of Sojiro. Two minutes was all it took for the man to shuffle past with his white hat on his head, a slouch to his posture, and Goro sprung into action.

This room was empty and lonely, but this room was also a wealth of information. What kind of detective would he be if he didn't investigate it?

He started with the bag he'd travelled with—the Shujin bag with his spare clothes. Goro wasted no time pulling it apart and setting down things he didn't recognise, all organised neatly by one side of the room. The textbooks, the casual clothing, they all went towards the life he knew better than anyone else. The phone, the student ID, it all stared back at him like a bleak reminder of how out of place he was now. Outside of the more important things were simple headphones, pens and pencils, basic items anyone would own without the need to customise them. Goro leaned back on his heels as he turned his gaze for the storage box. He swallowed the hesitant lump in his throat.

Goro had to prepare himself. He reached for one of the spare textbooks, tearing out page by page until a good half-dozen sheets were on the floor in front of him. He wouldn't necessarily need them to make new notes—all of his revision was right there in last year's textbook. He reached for his phone and unlocked it with one hand; with the other, he grabbed blindly at his collection of pens and uncapped one of them with his teeth.

_Facts_ , he wrote on the top of one piece of paper. Immediately underneath, he listed, _I am Goro Akechi_.

The list of facts went on as simple as that, single sentences that were undeniable after what he found out today. _I am a student at Shujin. I am 18 years old. I was held back. I am not a celebrity. I live in the attic of Cafe Leblanc._

He filled one page and a bit with these facts. He moved on to his next topic: _Tentative_.

Goro Akechi didn't know his own life. Goro Akechi didn't know if he was still Shido's unwanted son. Goro Akechi didn't know if he'd truly swapped with Akira Kurusu, or if this was coincidence. Most importantly, as evidence by his habitual underline, Goro Akechi didn't know if he was truly _alive_. By the end of the list he was surprised to find he knew more facts than he did uncertainties. Outside of his situation, not much seemed to have changed. Knowing most of the facts didn't ease his confusion much, especially when they were little bits of knowledge he was supposed to know for his whole life.

Alright. He got the obvious out of the way, and he swiped through his phone some more to dig into the more complicated stuff—how he was supposed to act. Goro was good at acting, but Goro needed an idea of his character to actually pull it off flawlessly. An actor who didn't know his character wasn't fit to be called an actor at all—just a faker, a liar, an identity thief.

His text messages showed a pretty basic pattern with how he spoke—polite with his mother and always with proper grammar, and occasionally adding an emoji to lighten the mood. His outward persona, his detective prince persona, and Goro barely needed to make notes on those personality traits. He knew that character like the back of his hand. He scrolled further and further, _further and further_ , and found no trace of his true self in the messages. No sardonic responses, no self deprecation, no loathing and jealousy and disdain. To all of his contacts he was just a sweet boy who'd suddenly gotten himself in trouble.

Goro opened his diary app. It was a goldmine of breakdowns and things he wanted so bad to say to someone's face, and there were no less than four of these entries per week. _This_ was Goro Akechi. Hidden away in plain sight, obsessively documented like the desires would eat him alive if they weren't given form. He thought back to the Metaverse, to the Palaces he'd seen and the distorted desires of all who'd fallen to him. He wondered if his Palace would present like this—like countless screams and shouts and demands, all written on the walls and the Shadows themselves.

He locked his phone and shook his head. No, he had a Persona. Persona users didn't have Palaces.

The storage box was next, and it was easier to sort through its contents than his phone. Less personal, more little hints to his new self than outright statements. The small trinkets he'd brought over didn't scream his insecurities back at him, and they made for rather interesting observation.

The Goro Akechi of his life was almost entirely the same as himself. He was polite and charming on the outside, rude and vindictive on the inside; he dressed in a rather conservative way, sweaters and trousers right down to the bottom of the box; he loved pancakes, so much so that an almost ten-year-old souvenir from Dome Town had accompanied him on his trip to Yongen-Jaya. And, in some ironic twist of fate, the new Goro Akechi had _genuine_ desires to be a detective. No ulterior motives, no need for fame and overwhelming love from everyone.

Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Dirk Gently, Inspector Bucket—Goro didn't even recognise half of the names of the fictional detectives, having never done much reading outside of newspapers himself, but the Goro of this life was _enamoured_ with them. He stacked them chronologically on the shelf beside his bed, using the Dome Town souvenir to keep it level. He turned back to the mess on the floor—the familiar, yet unrecognisable mess—and then collapsed onto the bed.

So investigating didn't go as planned. So investigating told him water was wet. So investigating made him somehow more uneasy than he was before. So what? Goro ran a hand down his face and sighed. This was just one scene, and he was just one person. He hadn't yet gone to the Velvet Room, and he hadn't yet tried entering Mementos or even someone's Palace. He had time. He had leads. He was in no rush.

Goro didn't bother to change into his pyjamas as sleep overtook him. He didn't want to look at the uniform when it was off him, lest he imagine someone else wearing it instead. He wanted to rest, to slip back into the nothingness that came with dying.

But that would be too cruel.

* * *

There was no Igor. The Velvet Room, once a prison in his heart that reflected how undesired he was, now felt more like an actual room. He opened his eyes to a ceiling covered in smoke and crimson, and his back was laid comfortably out on what felt like a sofa—the kind people laid on during therapy sessions or during those unrealistic television depictions of hypnotism.

Goro sprung up into a sitting position at the comparison. He'd sat on far too many of those in between foster homes. He looked left and right, at the glowing walls that seemed to have cracks leading to other rooms, and then he looked ahead at the desk mere feet away from him.

There was no Igor. There was no sinister smile and baritone voice to greet him. Instead there was long blond hair, a butterfly, and a mournful melody calling out to him.

The small girl standing in front of the desk looked up at Goro with an almost sad gaze. She lifted the book tucked under her arm and hugged it to her chest.

"Welcome back," she said. Almost hesitantly she added, "Trickster."

"Where is Igor?" Goro blurted out. The blond winced and hugged the book tighter against her.

"My master..." Hurt flashed across her features. Goro watched her expression, the way regret tugged at her lips and loss clouded her eyes. She seemed reluctant to disclose any information on Igor, and it made Goro all the more desperate to know why.

And like wiping chalk letters from a board, her expression hardened and her stance turned to that of confidence and power. She still clutched the book to her chest, but now with a sense of purpose rather than mourning.

"Goro Akechi," she said, and her voice seemed to echo through all of the Velvet Room. "You have died a pawn of Yaldabaoth, posing as my master and pitting your desires against that of the Phantom Thieves' for his own amusement."

A rush of air filtered out of his lungs as the confirmation that, yes, Goro had certainly died, was confirmed aloud. He wasn't sure if it was relief that he felt or distress—he'd wanted to live in his final moments, but knew he had no choice outside of martyring himself for the Thieves' survival; but now he was faced with a new problem, far too removed to simply retrace his steps from the first instance of hearts being stolen in the city.

But then, was everything truly reset? Or was this some kind of redo with more than just his and Akira's circumstances swapped? Would he even have a Persona now? Would the Phantom Thieves even exist? Would Goro have to unite them, or would they impossibly function without Akira by their sides? It'd barely been one day—there were still too many changes and obstacles to consider.

Goro sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment. Was he even still Shido's illegitimate son? So many tragedies had befallen Goro for that simple fact, for one man's existence. If someone claiming to be his mother was still around, what did that mean for his lineage? For his whole reason for existing in his past life? If there was nothing to connect him to Shido, to make his revenge feel all the more deserved and validated, then what was there even left for Goro?

" _Trickster_."

Goro blinked, his eyes coming back to focus on the blond in front of him. Her brow was knotted together, almost frustrated.

"We've not much time," she admonished him. "Please, pay attention before you return to the waking world."

He cleared his throat and nodded once. "Right," he exhaled. Goro did get some heavy news about his lone support in the Metaverse just now. Was it just not processing? Were there too many things going on for him to focus on one at a time, when it needed to be? "You said— I mean, if I didn't meet the true Igor, then where is he?"

"A prisoner of Yaldabaoth, still." She lifted a hand to the desk behind her, her fingers dancing along the surface fondly. "As is the previous trickster."

Previous? Goro furrowed his brows, certain he'd been able to associate the term with someone before. He'd always assumed that, with Loki as his Persona, it was rightfully him. But there was someone else—there was always someone else.

"Akira," he said finally. The blond nodded.

"I cannot tell you much at this very moment, but what I can will help you with the new purpose you have been given, trickster," she said. Goro leaned forward in his seat, his full attention on her now. Getting an answer related to the Metaverse, and perhaps even Akira, wasn't going to come by as easily when he woke up. "First, my name is Lavenza. I serve Igor and, for the time being, will guide you as my master would to the best of my ability. What little power I have compared to our foe will suffice to keep the Velvet Room accessible to you. Second, the reason you have not remained dead is because of the previous trickster, Akira Kurusu."

_Naturally_ , he wanted to blurt out. Nothing ever happened without Akira doing something, he'd found. Lavenza continued on, determined to finish before he woke.

"Yaldabaoth offered the trickster a deal," Lavenza said, "and he unfortunately took it. He laid out conditions and proposed a challenge not unlike the one my master had accepted from Yaldabaoth—and one of his terms had been you."

Goro just nodded once. Slowly, the reason for his resurrection was becoming clear.

Lavenza made a motion to continue, removing her hand from the desk. Her mouth opened and closed, but no voice came out. Goro blinked at her. He blinked and blinked, rubbing his eyes as Lavenza's demeanour changed. She went from calm and collected to visibly frustrated, desperately yelling silent pleas at Goro as the Velvet Room, once only filled with cracks that peeked into Mementos, began to crumble and fall apart around him.

Goro's eyes stung. He pushed the palms of his hands against his closed eyelids, and he begged for more time—time to just know what Akira had done, to know what the hell kind of deal he'd made with the bastard who'd led Goro along this whole time. The chair beneath him vanished, the light of the Velvet Room faded, and Goro fell into a darkness that made his heart leap into his throat.

There was a humming all around him, stirring at his conscience. Was he dying again? Had this Yaldabaoth character decided to go back on his deal? Or was Goro simply so unlucky that something had happened at Leblanc?

He fell.

And fell.

And fell.

And—

* * *

**April 10**

"Geez, kid."

Goro awoke with a start. He forced himself off of his bed so fast and so suddenly that his legs couldn't support him, and he tumbled to the floor gracelessly. A hand flew to his chest, wriggling under the Shujin uniform he'd forgotten to take off last night. He was met with a panicked, but still living heartbeat.

Slowly his mind caught up with him. Slowly the belief that he'd died again faded away. He was still alive, Goro told himself; Lavenza had just run out of time to explain things to him.

There was a rustling of paper, before suddenly an older voice read aloud, "'I am Goro Akechi. I am a student at Shujin.' You didn't waste any time writing this all down."

He wasn't sure what made him charge at Sojiro for the paper so frantically. Perhaps it was his past life's habits of hiding all written evidence of his inner workings. Perhaps it was the sense of privacy he'd always preferred when it came to himself. Perhaps it was the later details about things Sojiro would absolutely question, predictions of Phantom Thieves and Akira Kurusu. Whatever it was, Goro snatched the paper from Sojiro's hands and shoved it desperately into his pocket; the older man recoiled like he'd been burned, and the glare on his face was enough to tell Goro just how much of a mistake running on instinct had been.

Coldly, any and all interest in Goro's notes removed from his expression, Sojiro said, "Get ready. We're introducing you to your teachers."

The front door to Leblanc slammed when Sojiro left. Goro sank down to the floor and wondered just how much he'd have to apologise, to play the nice but skittish student, to make up for this blunder.


End file.
